‘It’s an acceptance of where my body is now’ – the modern-day appeal of workwear

We’ll never know who designed much of the workwear worn by the labouring classes of yesteryear. But they might well be bemused that the ordinary garments they cut generously, to allow movement while operating a machine or driving a train, are now highly collectible and sought after – worn by men who do little more than swivel on an office chair. If you’ve not noticed the prevalence of the dull tan of the Carhartt barn jacket or the triple-patch pocket of the chore coat, then perhaps you’ve been living in a cave with no signal to receive Instagram ads. Marks & Spencer is abundant with chore jackets and, in this year’s John Lewis Christmas advert, the dad has his suitably saccharine emotional moment wearing one, too. The popularity of these industrial-age garments, whether reproduction high fashion or high street, or the original vintage, shows no sign of fading. Men, old and young, with callused hands or tender fingers such as the ones currently nimbly dancing over my laptop keyboard, are all drawn to these simple yet expressive pieces. But why? I’m convinced that as well as it being relatively low cost and durable, workwear is popular because we modern men have become increasingly anxious about our physiques, especially as we age. Toxic expectations of body shape and size seem to be drifting over from discourse around the female body to us, and so much male fashion is now aimed at the slimmer, youthful figure; towards sportswear that shows off that you do sport, and the body that sport gives you. Workwear gives me a sense of mental comfort in the wobbly spread of my middle age, thanks to its tough canvases and twills that retain their structure despite softening with time, as well as the boxy, roomy cuts. But although workwear is ideal for the late-40s man (me), who thinks donning a navy blue down gilet is a sign you’ve given up, its grip extends to younger men’s wardrobes, too. In the workplace it would have clad teenage apprentice to near-retiree, and Tony Sylvester, author of new book An Informal Guide to Workwear, which charts how workwear staples went from mass-produced garments sold or given to industrial employees to 21st-century menswear staples, says that his introduction to workwear came when he was 16 in the late 1980s, when west coast rappers such as NWA wore chore coats. Today, a younger generation now often comes to it via that modern fashion phenomenon, the collaboration. Carhartt WIP, for instance, constantly reinterprets the look for younger consumers, most recently launching a collaboration with Nicholas Daley, inspired by the designer’s Jamaican and Scottish heritage. There’s a striking diversity of style among the men who pivot their wardrobe around workwear. My favourite shop is Levisons in east London, where I’ve bought pieces including a 1950s French SNCF railway jacket in brown canvas, a Royal Navy blue shop coat, and most recently a tough black mac in rubberised cotton. Spend any time there and you’ll see that everyone combines workwear with modern or other vintage wear in wildly different ways. Sylvester says he “likes to mix up these codes”, pairing knackered Carhartt or French workwear trousers with fancy opera pumps. I wear my SNCF jacket with a boxy white tee in summer, a light-blue French work shirt in spring and autumn, and a Guernsey or submariner jumper in winter. One of the criticisms that can be thrown at workwear enthusiasts such as Sylvester and me is that we’re soft-handed ponces trying to appropriate the identity of the working-class men who originally wore the clothes. There’s a meme that, in varying forms, regularly does the rounds on social media: a workwear garment (a chore coat, overalls), and what it should have seen (a factory, a woodland) versus what it actually sees – usually, a queue for a fancy coffee shop or a craft beer brewery. “I’m always aware of that sense of stolen valour,” says Sylvester, although he points out that French artists wore farmers’ smocks while they painted, not only to keep their other clothes clean but also to project the idea that their labour in front of the canvas had equal worth as that expended behind a plough. I must admit I find some of the finger-wagging around cultural appropriation wearying. Clothes, and the fabric they’re made of, have always moved up and down the class structure. Jeans are workwear in origin. It’s about motivation. I don’t love my brown canvas SNCF coat because I’m trying to identify with the bloke who originally wore it, but because it was fairly cheap and made of natural fibres by unionised labour long ago rather than in synthetic material by people working in dubious conditions today. I got married in a blue linen suit made by Norfolk’s Old Town, whose designs were based on clothes worn by labourers, because I knew I could wear it not just at the wedding, but to an office or the pub. The Royal Navy shop coat saw off baby vomit, and its large pockets held an emergency nappy Obviously what we wear is all about projecting how we want to be perceived, but with workwear this can be nuanced. Sure, some men may wear a bleu de travail because they want to persuade the world that their desk job in marketing is a valid creative labour, or Carhartt to show they’re rugged – good luck to them. If I interrogate my own motivations, I tend to avoid the blue chore jacket as being too obvious, I find jeans uncomfortable, and most American workwear too tainted with a “bro” masculinity that isn’t really me (I once tried on a pair of Red Wing boots and looked like a clown). As I age, I realise how workwear’s durability lends itself to our projection of identity. I used to float around different styles in my youth. In my early 20s my style was best described as “highly available twink”. But workwear is a statement of who I am now, that I’m ignoring current style and I disdain gym culture. It’s also an acceptance of where my body is now: as I crept over 40, my waistline expanded beyond 36in and I acquired man tits like Reeves and Mortimer’s characters Mulligan and O’Hare. Workwear saved me, and many men I know. It enables us to remain stylish as we age while also not having to worry about our waistlines and – worse – avoiding that nagging feeling we should be dressing younger than our age, which never ends well. But workwear is also a projection that I am someone who above all appreciates value for money. At Labour and Wait, the traditional home goods shop that also sells new workwear, if customers ask why items that were once working-class staples are now, relatively speaking, expensive, manager Ben Langworthy (also a workwear collector) explains that “it’s a misnomer to think that back in the day people were buying the cheapest they could get; they bought the best they could afford, and repaired and kept it going for decades”. My SNCF jacket has outlived a Barbour, needing only one seam repair and a button resewing. The Royal Navy shop coat saw off baby vomit, and its large pockets held an emergency nappy (workwear is ideal dad apparel). Yet, however tough the construction, the supply of vintage workwear is inevitably limited and prices have risen “astronomically” in recent years, according to Sylvester. Small workwear manufacturers, such as Texan family firm Stan Ray, have been upping production to meet demand, and other brands have launched new ranges based on old designs: from Japan’s Bryceland’s, and Paris-based Anatomica, to Nottingham’s Universal Works and West Yorkshire’s HebTroCo. Sylvester praises the “unbroken heritage” of Yarmouth Oilskins, which still uses only natural fabrics in the same quayside factory it has occupied for decades. Sylvester’s own AWMS label is collaborating with Yarmouth Oilskins on a duffel jacket this winter – another potential piece to trouble the coat rack Rawlplugs. This is also at the heart of workwear’s appeal. We want to know who is making our clothes, and how. Sylvester sums up how many feel when he says, “I’m so fascinated by the second life of clothing.” The workplace of the late 19th to mid-20th century belongs to another world, but there’s something wonderful in how the ordinary clothes have more contemporary relevance than the hifalutin fashions of the upper classes, now ossified in museums. And in that, the understated resilience of workwear isn’t an appropriation, but instead a quiet revolution.